


Winter Veil Present

by MilesHibernus



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Also keep in mind that Mathias is an actual assassin, Fluff, Flynn's a little oblivious sometimes, M/M, Mention of canon-typical violence, Only One Bed, Pre-Relationship, Snowed In, Sort Of, Winter Veil, because it's Kul Tiras two days before Yule, fairshawlidays, oh the weather outside is frightful
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2020-12-26
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:41:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28189368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MilesHibernus/pseuds/MilesHibernus
Summary: A collection of prompt fics for Boilingheart's Fairshawlidays
Relationships: Flynn Fairwind/Mathias Shaw
Comments: 23
Kudos: 47





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The prompt choices were mistletoe/fireplace

Mathias had to admit he didn’t get along well with cold weather, especially cold _wet_ weather. He did not, however, have to admit it out loud - because he wasn’t just Mathias, he was also Master Shaw, and Master Shaw couldn’t afford to have visible weaknesses.

So it didn’t matter how little insulation his armor gave him; it didn’t matter how badly the old break in his shin ached when the temperature fell; it didn’t matter that Kul Tiras seemed determined to kill _him specifically_ with chill and damp and the sky spitting stuff that couldn’t decide whether it wanted to be rain or snow or sleet. He couldn’t let any of it show, not even when he’d spent all of the short afternoon and well into evening waiting in an unheated room for a contact who’d never arrived.

It could have been worse, he mused as he trudged through Hook Point on his way back towards the docks and his berth aboard the _Wind’s Redemption._ He could have spent all that time out in the wind. As if the thought had conjured it, a particularly sharp gust whipped past him and Mathias clenched all the muscles in his core to keep them from trembling.

He realized he’d crossed the unofficial boundary into the Dampwick Ward when the street got worse. The uneven cobbles under his feet hid ditches and potholes that he couldn’t easily detect in the sparse light of the poorest district of Boralus; he started keeping a tally of how many squelched and how many crunched, out of a need to distract himself and more than a little morbid curiosity.

When a figure loomed out of the dark, Mathias tensed more from habit than anything else. It wasn’t likely that anyone would try anything, and if someone did he was confident of his ability to handle it, cold or no cold; he was armed and more importantly armored, which a random assailant almost certainly wouldn’t be, and the garden-variety Dampwick thug had just enough fighting ability to get in their own way. He remembered at the last possible moment to dodge left instead of right as he and the other person prepared to pass each other.

“Shaw?”

Momentum carried Mathias two more steps before the familiarity of the voice caught up to him. He stopped and turned, to discover Flynn Fairwind - and when had Fairwind become familiar, anyway? - with his hands stuffed in the pockets of his greatcoat and tendrils of his hair escaping its tie. Mathias eyed the greatcoat wistfully. “Captain,” he said, trying not to sound sharp; it wasn’t Fairwind’s fault Mathias was miserable.

“What’re you doing out here at this time of night?”

“I’m on my way back to the ship,” he said.

“You realize that doesn’t answer the question,” said Fairwind, amusement in his voice. Before Mathias could reply he shrugged and continued, “But okay, important secret spymaster...things, fair enough.”

“Captain, I don’t mean to be rude, but this isn’t the best time for a chat,” Mathias said. As he finished the sentence, another gust, this one bearing indecisive but extremely _cold_ precipitation, caught him in the back of the neck; distracted as he was, he shuddered violently before he could stop himself.

“Tides, Shaw, are you alright?” Fairwind took a step closer, close enough that even in the chancy light Mathias could see concern on his face. “It’s a bit much out here for a mainlander.”

“I’m fine,” Mathias said. Or he would be, as soon as he got back to his cabin, which was close enough. “I’m a bit chilled, so I’ll just be going. Good night.”

“It’ll take you twenty minutes or better to get back to your ship,” said Fairwind, as Mathias made to turn.

“Yes, so I’d like to get started on that as soon as possible,” Mathias retorted, at the end of his patience for anything that kept him from getting to his blankets.

“Come back to my flat, mate,” said Fairwind. Mathias did not gape at him, having had such reactions trained out of him before he needed to shave. Fairwind went on blithely, “It’s a lot closer, and I’ve got rum.”

Mathias, feeling slow and stupid, said the only thing that came to mind: “Rum will make it worse.”

“Good point. I’ll heat up some soft cider then. Come on, I don’t want to have to explain to Wyrmbane that I let his spy freeze solid in the street. Or Feathermoon, Tidemother shield me, that woman could kill me with her _wrist_.”

Mathias hesitated, and Fairwind hiked his eyebrows. “I’m not letting you walk all the way back by yourself and I really don’t feel like being out here longer than I have to.”

“Lead the way,” Mathias said.

* * *

As promised, the trip back into Hook Point wasn’t long, and ended at a door that Fairwind unlocked while Mathias leaned on the wall and pretended he could still feel his feet. Inside a flight of narrow stairs, lit by a single anemic mage-lamp, led up; apparently Fairwind lived above - inevitably - a tavern.

“Watch the mistletoe,” Fairwind said as they neared the top.

“The what?”

“Mistletoe.” Fairwind pointed, and sure enough there was a ball of mistletoe, complete with decorative ribbon, tacked to the ceiling. “It’s nearly Winter Veil.”

“I had noticed,” Mathias said, hauling himself up the last few steps. The Longest Night was even longer in Kul Tiras than in Stormwind and he was looking forward to being past it. “But why do you have mistletoe _here_?”

“Never know when a pretty lass might follow me home,” said Fairwind. “Or a handsome lad, for that matter.”

Mathias wasn’t exactly at the top of his game, but he’d have had to be in far, _far_ worse shape to miss the look Fairwind gave him. He knew better than to ascribe any meaning to it; as far as he’d been able to tell, Fairwind would flirt with anything that had a pulse. Mathias took a pointed step to the side to avoid passing directly under the mistletoe and Fairwind huffed laughter at him before opening another door. “My flat is your flat, as they say,” he announced.

The revealed room was small, with one wall dedicated to a makeshift kitchen and a hearth opposite between two more doorways; one contained no barrier, and through it Mathias could see a wedge of neatly made bed. Everything in the place was neat, in fact; Mathias felt a flash of shame for his mild surprise. There were two windows, both of them probably large enough for an adult to squeeze through but it would be an involved and noisy process. Mathias reflexively positioned himself out of the windows’ lines of sight.

Fairwind skinned out of his coat and tossed it at the armchair that took up a healthy chunk of the room’s floorspace. “I’ll wake the fire, you get your kit off.”

Mathias’ hands actually twitched in the direction of the buckle that held his pauldrons before reason reasserted itself. He took a moment to try to control his voice, but even he could hear that he hadn’t succeeded. “ _What_?”

Poker in hand, Fairwind glanced over his shoulder from his crouch at the hearth and said, “You’ll warm up faster without half-frozen leather against your skin, trust me.”

Mathias turned the thought over and over in his head but it didn’t cohere into anything that made sense, and after a moment Fairwind sighed and laid the poker down. He got to his feet and Mathias watched him warily, but he stopped at a perfectly decent distance. “Shaw, you’re cold-sick,” he said, with none of the edge of humor that usually colored his voice. “I assume you’re wearing something under the armor, you can leave that, but we need to warm you up. Your lips’re turning blue, mate.” Fairwind produced a wry smile. “I’ll be a perfect gentleman, I promise.”

Mathias nodded slowly.

* * *

Mathias ended up in the armchair next to the fire, wearing his singlet and the linen pants that protected his skin from his armor, while Fairwind busied himself at the tiny stove. Mathias clutched at the blanket Fairwind had handed him, and clenched his teeth against racking shudders. Through the fog that had descended over his thoughts he berated himself for having let it get to this point; it hadn’t been nearly so chilly when he’d left the _Wind’s Redemption_ , and he’d thought he didn’t need to bring a cloak. He hadn’t expected the way the temperature had fallen along with the sun.

He stared into the fire, fascinated by the movement of the flames, for an unknowable time before he became aware that Fairwind had said his name - had in fact said it repeatedly. Mathias forced himself to focus, to discover Fairwind offering him a heavy ceramic mug. From the smell of it, Fairwind had spiced the cider while he was heating it.

“Drink up, it’ll help,” said Fairwind. “If you put your palms against it that’ll help too.”

Mathias took the mug and hesitated for only the merest instant before sipping from it. If Fairwind had wanted him dead, he could have just left him in the street; Mathias was by now quite sure that he wouldn’t have made it back to the ship before deciding to sit down somewhere to rest for just a moment, and that would have been the end of that with no way for anyone to even suspect Fairwind had been in a position to stop it. Poison in the man’s own home would be idiotic, and whatever else Fairwind might be, no matter what he wanted people to think, he wasn’t an idiot. Nor, most of the time, even half as drunk as he pretended. “How do you know how to handle this?” Mathias asked.

Fairwind sat down beside the chair in an ungraceful sprawl and set another mug on the floor. “Sailor, mate. Being at sea is cold more often than it’s warm, even if you’re not in the water. Just about everyone gets cold-sick on the middle watch, their first voyage as crew. I did.” He craned his neck to grin up at Mathias. “Mainlanders have no meat on their bones to begin with and you’re worse than most. And no mistake, I appreciate the effect of those leather trousers of yours but they’re not exactly cold-weather gear, are they? At least Wyrmbane’s wearing padding under all the metal.”

None of the possible answers to that little speech seemed to be wise, so Mathias drank more cider instead.

* * *

Normally, waking up slowly was a luxury in which Mathias didn’t indulge. Drifting awake listening to the sound of someone moving in the other room was for people who didn’t have desks covered in paperwork to go to. Who had someone to be in the other room, another luxury that Master Shaw’s life didn’t have space for. But well before Mathias actually opened his eyes he could tell that it was already later than he usually slept, so what was another quarter hour?

When he did open his eyes, Mathias discovered he’d been sleeping in what had to be Fairwind’s bed. A quick rummage in his memory produced the image of Fairwind sitting stubbornly in his armchair and insisting he was going to sleep in it, so Mathias’ choices were the bed or the floor. By that time Mathias had been too exhausted to even argue very much, much less bodily move a man who outweighed him by half.

He sat up, listening to the creak of the ropes that supported the mattress, and rubbed his hands over his face. He needed to get back to the _Wind’s Redemption_ before Wyrmbane started sending out search parties.

Mathias emerged into the main room to find Fairwind sitting in the single straight-backed chair at the tiny table. “Good morning,” said Fairwind cheerfully. “It even is still morning. Here, coffee. Got some sugar if you like that but no milk.” He nudged a mug—the same mug—in Mathias’ direction.

“Thanks,” Mathias said as he picked it up. “I need to get back to the ship. They’ll have missed me by now.”

“I paid a kid to take Wyrmbane a note.”

Mathias froze, overcome with dread. “What did you tell him?”

Fairwind shrugged. “That you were still sleeping and he shouldn’t expect to see you anytime soon after how worn out you were.”

Mathias closed his eyes in despair. “You _didn’t_.” The hell of it was that every word of that appalling sentence was true; the problem lay in Wyrmbane hearing it from _Fairwind._

“No, I didn’t.” Fairwind sounded entirely too amused. “I said we met on the street and you’d asked me to let him know that your business had taken longer than you expected, that’s all.”

“Oh. Well. That sounds very -”

“...professional?” said Fairwind, all innocence.

Mathias glared. Fairwind shrugged again, not one whit abashed, and Mathias buried his scowl in the mug. The coffee was surprisingly decent, even without sugar, and Mathias got through about half of it before the pangs of his conscience grew too sharp to ignore. He stifled a sigh and put the mug down. “Thank you.”

Fairwind sat back in his chair and waved his free hand in dismissal. “Don’t mention it. Unless it’s going to get me better rates for the azerite island runs, in which case feel free to mention it all you like.”

Mathias wouldn’t have expected to feel disappointment at the idea that Fairwind had been protecting his meal ticket. He didn’t let it show on his face. “I don’t have authority over that,” he said.

“Ah well, it was a long shot,” Fairwind said. He didn’t sound as if he cared much. “You can buy me a drink if you insist.”

“I owe you more than a drink.”

For a long moment Fairwind just stared at him; Mathias bore the regard quietly. “You don’t owe me anything,” Fairwind said finally. For the second time in less than a day—he was fairly certain for the second time _ever_ —Mathias experienced Flynn Fairwind being serious. “You were too cold to think straight, you couldn’t tell, but if I’d left you out there it would have been plain murder. Tides, you let me tell you you’ve got a nice arse without snapping my head off. I’ve got enough things keeping me from sleeping at night, I don’t need another. Buy me a drink and we’re even.”

There were any number of possible replies to that; Mathias settled on, “Still. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Fairwind picked up his coffee mug and drained it - and when he set it down, he was smirking. Mathias braced himself. “You have got a nice arse, though.”

“Captain,” Mathias groaned.

“What? You have!”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt pair sweet tooth/feast. Didn't manage to work them both in this time, alas!

“Damn it,” said Mathias, and Flynn looked up to discover him setting his hands on the arms of his chair in the way that meant he was about to try to lever himself back out of it.

Flynn set his book down hastily. “Whoa, nope, what do you think you’re doing? You just got settled down.” It was only the last few days that Mathias had started spending more time out of bed than in it, but there still wasn’t much in the way of movement; mostly he walked from the bed to the armchair, and occasionally from the armchair to the kitchen or the loo, and even that was obviously taxing.

Flynn did not like to think about how close Mathias had come to dying.

“I left my coffee in the kitchen,” said Mathias, but he stopped trying to get up. 

“If only you had a strapping lad to fetch it for you,” said Flynn. Mathias glowered at him. Flynn considered holding out until Mathias actually asked, but discarded the idea as having too great a chance that he’d instead get exasperated and stand up after all. “Back in a tick.”

Mathias’ preferred coffee mug - perhaps inevitably glazed matte black - sat next to the stove, filled dangerously close to the brim. Flynn picked it up, musing that it was probably good that it had been forgotten; Mathias was less than entirely steady on his feet sometimes and a spill would have driven him into a fury at his own temporary debility. In the interests of lowering the level of the liquid, Flynn took a healthy gulp - and stopped in his tracks.

The coffee was still just about warm enough to drink, but sweet, cloyingly so, nearly to the point of being syrupy, and Flynn supposed he now had an answer for why Mathias had insisted on pouring his own coffee as soon as he was physically able to stagger to the kitchen. It hadn’t after all been trying to prove a point about taking care of himself, or at least not entirely. Flynn shook his head as he resumed course. Tides, but the man twisted himself up in odd ways sometimes.

Back in the sitting room he set the mug down on the small table at the side of Mathias’ chair and said, “You could have just told me to put more sugar in.” When someone else brought him coffee, Mathias asked for one sugar and to all appearances thought even that was a dangerous concession to human weakness. “Why were you hiding this?” _From me_ , Flynn didn’t say, because he wasn’t at all certain he could without sounding hurt.

Mathias looked up and emotions flashed across his face: chagrin, followed by annoyance, followed by resignation. “That’s not - it’s not _you_. No one else knows anymore. A few people did, but they’re both dead now.”

“The only two people who knew how you really like your coffee died,” said Flynn, to ensure he was getting it right.

Mathias nodded, and looked down at his hands. As if he were confessing to murder - as if he were a _normal person_ confessing to murder - he said, “Milk too. Almost as much milk as coffee. But that -”

“- changes the colour and people can tell,” Flynn finished. Mathias nodded again without looking up. “I can’t express how disturbing it is that I worked that out on my own. Right, okay, but that doesn’t...why hide it? Some people like sweet coffee.”

At that Mathias did look up. “Because - Flynn, when we first met, how would you have assumed I like coffee?”

“Pretty much like you always get it when someone asks, only maybe without even the sugar. I have to admit you struck me as a why’d-you-ask-for-coffee sort of bloke at first. Took a while to figure out what you had hiding under there. Worth the wait, though.” Flynn gave his best suggestive smile, but Mathias didn’t return it.

“I’m glad that’s what you thought, because that’s the impression I wanted to give,” he said instead. “I drink black coffee for the same reason you pretend to be a drunken idiot.”

“ _Charming_ drunken idiot, thank you,” said Flynn, not even pretending to be offended.

“The drunken idiot is the important part,” said Mathias dryly, to Flynn’s relief; that sounded a great deal more like him. “There’s a person I have to be to survive. That person can’t have _weaknesses_ , Flynn, even weaknesses as trivial as liking too much sugar in his coffee. Besides, it’s easier to taste...additions if it’s plain. I only put sugar in it when I’m sure I’ll have physical control of the cup until I’m done drinking it.”

“And you only put milk in when no one else will see you drinking at all, so you haven’t had coffee the way you actually like it in - how many months?”

“Just under two,” said Mathias. “The last time you were at sea.”

Right before the mission that had nearly killed him. Flynn grimaced at the memory and quickly squelched it. “Well, now I know, so there’s no reason for you to not have it the way you like it.” He paused. Shrugged. “As the actor said to the bishop.”

“Flynn…” Flynn raised his eyebrows innocently, and was rewarded with a smile that Mathias obviously tried and failed to suppress. “Why are you like this?”

“Because it makes you laugh, love,” said Flynn fondly. He braced a hand on the back of Mathias’ chair, the better to lean down and kiss him. “Now do you want me to fix this up for you?”

There was only the briefest of pauses before Mathias said, “Yes. Please.”

“Coming right up!”

Flynn took the mug back into the kitchen with him, plotting all the while. This time of year, people often sold sugar syrup flavoured with cinnamon or orange or peppermint. At some point, Mathias would fall asleep, and if it happened before the shops closed Flynn could go and look for some.

He nodded to himself as he set about pouring milk into a pot.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Snowed in/bundling up, and bonus stealth Only One Bed.

“Well, this is just how I wanted to spend Winter Veil, how about you?” said Flynn, as he pushed through the door. Mathias Shaw, spymaster of the Alliance and Flynn’s current companion, looked up from the small fire he was coaxing into life.

“I’m sorry you’re not going to be able to spend the occasion getting blind drunk in your cabin,” he said, and turned back to his task. “Set that down where I can reach it.”

Flynn rolled his eyes as he dumped his armload of firewood; Shaw wasn’t looking, but Flynn was certain he knew anyway. “Wasn’t blaming you, mate. I took the contract to get you here and I know perfectly well what the weather’s like this far north.” He made an effort to keep his tone light. He and Shaw were likely to be in close quarters for at least a day and arguing wouldn’t make that time pass any more pleasantly. “At least we’ve got food and water’s not a problem.”

The snow had been falling for perhaps three quarters of an hour but it was four inches deep or better already and Flynn's nose for weather made him doubt it was going to stop any time soon. Hence his current mission to bring as much of the firewood as possible into the hut. He didn’t know who the building had originally belonged to, though its general lines and the fact that he didn’t have to duck to get through the door made him uneasily suspicious of vrykul; they tended to like cold, remote islands.

Not that it probably mattered, if the state of the hut, its companions, and their contents was any hint. He and Shaw had picked their current temporary abode because it had intact windows and a door that closed all the way, but there wasn’t any furniture beyond an extremely ragged straw-stuffed pallet. Flynn intended to check carefully for mice before sitting on it, but sit on it he would rather than lose all his heat to the frozen floor. “Plenty of wood, too,” he said. 

Shaw sighed. “We’re lucky you spotted the buildings,” he said, sounding considerably less sour.

Flynn, who knew an olive branch when he was offered it, said, “We’re _lucky_ whoever lived here didn’t take their firewood with them when they left. Speaking of, be right back.”

Once Shaw had gotten the fire established, he joined in the retrieval effort. Their last few trips out to the woodshed built against the side of the hut took place as the day’s light died completely. The firewood took up the lion’s share of the floorspace, but they’d left the area in front of the hearth clear and Flynn dragged the pallet into it. Nothing squeaked or fled, even when he shook it for good measure. He knelt at the hearth to add wood to the fire, listening to Shaw doing something with their packs - food maybe, food would be a good idea. Rum, regrettably, would not.

When he was done, he turned to discover Shaw sitting on the straw-tick, with both of their blankets draped around his shoulders. Flynn had brought a plain old wool blanket, but Shaw’s was shaldorei silk from Suramar in the Broken Isles, just as warm for a fraction of the weight, and Flynn rather coveted it - and it didn’t seem in character for Shaw to appropriate both the blankets, an impression that was confirmed when he held out one fabric-draped arm. Flynn didn’t know quite what to say.

It only made sense to share as much heat as they could, but Flynn couldn’t help thinking about how romantic the gesture would be in any other circumstances. Sitting by the fire, sharing blankets while the snow fell outside...all they’d need would be a bottle of wine. Nor had it escaped his notice that he found Shaw extremely easy on the eyes, but if the man found _anyone_ attractive in return he was very good at not showing it.

“Come on, Captain,” said Shaw after a moment. “We’ll be warmer.”

“Right,” said Flynn. “Yeah, right, of course.” He failed utterly at sounding nonchalant. But he sat, and nestled up as close to Shaw’s side as possible. Being somewhat taller he wrapped his arm around Shaw’s shoulders to let them press together a bit more tightly. “We should eat something.”

“Once we’ve warmed up,” said Shaw, wincingly severe. Of _course_ he’d noticed Flynn’s...pulse, or breathing, or whatever it was he used to read a bloke’s damn mind. “Then we should sleep in shifts to keep the fire going.”

Flynn sighed, and nodded. It was going to be a long night.


End file.
